When Danger Calls (Blackthorne, Inc.)

by Terry Odell

  "I'll have to send these out," the teen-age clerk said. "We don't process black and white on site anymore." The look he gave her said nobody in their right mind did black and white anywhere anymore. Or even film.

  "That's fine," Frankie said. "When will they be back?"

  "With luck, by Friday." He handed her five strips of paper. "Here are your claim checks."

  Molly tugged on Frankie's arm. "I'm hungry, Mommy."

  "One more stop. I need to take some pictures to a store in Missoula. I have an apple in the car for you." Frankie thanked the clerk, shoved the receipts into her purse and hurried to the car. With luck, the car wouldn't act up, and she'd get to the Photo Barn and back before dark. And before her head exploded.

  *****

  Tuesday morning, Frankie sat at the kitchen table, armed with a box of tissues and a mug of tea laced with honey and lemon, as she pored over the bank statements. Too exhausted to do anything the previous evening, she'd made Molly macaroni and cheese for dinner, then napped on the couch while Molly watched videos. But this morning, yesterday's mail with its overdue phone and electric bills, and a maxed out credit card statement had sent her rooting through her mother's files.

  The last bank statement she found was two months old. Apparently Mom had switched to the computerized system after that. Frankie opened the checkbook and examined the register. The last entry was two months ago. All the notations were in her mother's neat handwriting. The payment column far outweighed the deposit column. Frankie recognized the Social Security income, and what looked like regular transfers from her mother's pension, but there was a recurring automatic deposit of three hundred dollars a month she couldn't account for. Probably James' contribution to the household.

  She logged onto the computer and went to the bank's website. Not sure if she should be happy or angry when her mother's account opened automatically, Frankie made a mental note to talk to her mother about making the account so easily accessible. For now, she'd pay some of these bills.

  A mixture of worry and relief drizzled over her. On one hand, there was enough money to cover the bills. But that raised the question about her mother's ability to manage the accounts. Had she forgotten to pay the bills? Misplaced them?

  Answers would have to wait until her mother returned. She set up the payments, clicked "Submit" and sent a copy of the accounts to the printer. Brenda would be back Friday. She'd ask her to keep a closer eye on Mom.

  "Mommy. Susie's outside. Can I go play?"

  Frankie sneezed. "Outside where?"

  "Her backyard. I see her playing with Buster. I like him, but he's not as nice as Wolf."

  "Let me call Mrs. Winthrop and make sure it's okay with her." Frankie picked up the phone, peering out the kitchen window. Susie was throwing a tennis ball for Buster, who didn't seem too excited about returning it. Maybe the terrier next door would satisfy Molly's craving for a puppy.

  "You sound terrible," Meg said. "Of course Molly can come play. We were going to go to see the new Disney picture, and then to Slappy's for pizza. We'd love to have Molly join us. As a matter of fact, why don't you plan to have her sleep over. Give that cold a rest."

  At the mention of the sleepover, Frankie remembered that with both Mom and Brenda gone, she needed a sitter for Molly tonight anyway, so she could go to work. She was getting as forgetful as her mother. "You are an angel of mercy," she said. "I will return the favor. All you have to do is ask."

  "I'm sure things will even out. Greg and I have an anniversary next month."

  "I hear you. Susie's welcome to stay here."

  "To be honest, I think I overplanned Spring Break activities, but I can't back down now. Having Molly join us actually makes things easier—the two of them get along, and I can sneak in a few minutes to breathe. Send her around back. I'm in the kitchen."

  With Molly off to play and the house to herself, Frankie changed into her flannel drawstring pants, her faded red sweatshirt with the frayed cuffs, and curled up on the couch with a quilt, her tissues, and Indiana Jones. She'd get a decent nap, her cold meds would work, and she'd be able to handle her stint at the Three Elks. Thank goodness Mr. Stubbs hadn't been serious about firing her, not after she explained the emergency. She'd make up her lost hour tonight. As a precaution, she set the alarm before she focused on Harrison Ford. She attributed his morphing into a dimpled, bare-chested warrior to her cold pills.

  Chapter 11

  Home after an endless shift, Frankie trudged up the porch steps. She stripped off her Three Elks uniform, crawled back into her comfort clothes, and put on some water for tea.

  She'd made better than average tips—apparently, the customers liked her frog-voice. They said it was sexy. But she was glad she had tomorrow night off. She still hadn't decided if she was disappointed or thankful that Jack—no, Ryan—hadn't shown up.

  While she waited for the water to boil, she checked the answering machine. Three messages. Wishing she had the mental fortitude to put them off until morning, she knew her curiosity would keep her awake. Nothing could be too bad. Bob and her mother would call on her cell if there was an emergency. Same went for Molly. Would Ryan have called? No, he was probably angry at the way she'd disappeared. Or glad. And why should she be thinking of him? He hadn't accepted her offer of friendship. And she didn't want more, not that he'd offered.

  Good grief. Now she was babbling in her thoughts. She picked up the pen beside the phone and pushed the button.

  Three words into a pitch for the investment opportunity of a lifetime, she hit Delete. Right. Even if it were true, there had to be money to invest. Not in this lifetime.

  The kettle whistled, and Frankie stepped into the kitchen. The raspy voice on the machine quickened her pulse. She turned off the burner, raced back to the table and hit "Replay."

  "This message is for Ms. Frances Castor. Um…Guess you're not home. This is Will Loucas at the Photo Barn in Missoula. You were in yesterday. I'll call tomorrow—that's Wednesday—it's about those photographs you brought by. Thanks. Um, bye."

  Her heart pounded. Will Loucas had accepted her two landscapes on consignment. This had to mean he had a buyer, didn't it?

  If she sold them, he'd take more. He'd said so. The adrenaline rush cleared her head, and she happy-danced around the kitchen. Two sales wasn't much, but it was a start. Wait. Maybe not two. Who cared? Selling one picture in a day was better than she'd hoped for.

  She stopped mid-pivot and took a deep breath. The message didn't say he'd sold anything. Wouldn't he have mentioned that in his message? It could mean he changed his mind about displaying them. Or she had to sign another form. Or somebody stole them. Or said they were too ugly for words and smashed them to bits, or…she didn't know what else. But tonight, she was going to believe that he'd sold at least one of them. She would enjoy one night of feeling like a professional photographer.

  The furnace groaned, and the empty house closed in around her. For the first time in she couldn't remember how long, she longed for someone to share her excitement. Heck, for the first time in she couldn't remember how long, she had exciting news to share. Even Molly was gone tonight. Knowing it would be a while before she could sleep, she went back to the couch and Indiana Jones.

  "Hey, Indy," she shouted at the television. "I'm going to be a photographer. Isn't that great?"

  *****

  Ryan pounded on Frankie's door, not caring that it was eight in the morning. How could she be involved in putting Pop out of business? The door opened, and he waved a sheaf of papers in her face. "What do you think you're doing?"

  When he got no answer, he pushed his way past her into the living room. "I can't believe you'd do this."

  The door closed behind him, and he calmed down long enough to notice her bare feet and baggy flannel pants. His eyes moved upward, past the oversized sweatshirt, to her disheveled hair, red-tipped nose, and puffy eyes.

  "Sorry if I woke you." As apologies went, he didn't think she'd buy it. So what. She'd be right. H
e'd spent the better part of a day tracking down the owner of the mountain property, and somewhere in the layers of paperwork, he uncovered an address. His blood pressure had skyrocketed when he realized it was Frankie's, that he'd misjudged her entirely. Like everyone else, she had a hidden agenda.

  "Dammit, aren't you going to say something?" he asked.

  She shook her head and pointed at her throat.

  "What's that supposed to mean." He looked at her more closely. The bright eyes. The pale face. The tremor in her hand. "Shit, Frankie. You're sick."

  She rolled her eyes and gave him a crooked grin. "Got it in one, Sherlock."

  Damn, she sounded like a baritone frog. His anger dissolved, replaced by a totally inappropriate physical response, one that defied all logic. Maybe not all logic. He'd been thinking about her on the drive over, trying to stay angry, but memories of her at the cabin—the way she smelled after her shower, the way her eyes lit up when he brought back her camera, the way she'd felt, all soft and vulnerable when she'd fainted into his arms—kept interfering with his fume. He'd come here to make her explain what was going on, to argue her into putting a stop to Pop's problem, and his body was overruling his brain, telling him to take her in his arms and comfort her. To feel her soft curves pressed against him.

  "Coffee?" she said.

  "Please," he said, ignoring the fact that he'd had three cups before he left and drained a thermos on the drive over. Having a silent argument with the brain below his belt, he strode toward the kitchen. He sensed her behind him and tried to dismiss the way she enveloped his senses, even from five feet away. "Relax. I can do it."

  In the kitchen, he found the coffee fixings on the counter and busied himself while he waited for things to settle down.

  "The kid still asleep?"

  She hesitated before answering. "Sleepover."

  "Don't talk if it hurts."

  She brushed against him as she reached for a teakettle on the stove. "I'm going to have tea." She twisted a knob and stepped back, pushing her hair from her face. "Be right back."

  While she was gone, his cell rang. "Unknown caller" flashed on the display. He pressed the talk button. "Harper."

  "Hey, pardner."

  "Dalton? Where are you?" As soon as he uttered the words, he knew there was no point in asking. There was shouting in the background, he could hear a chopper, and what was probably wind whistling. "Never mind. What's up?" His pulse quickened in anticipation. Dalton wouldn't call from a mission unless it was important.

  "Only have a second. Looks like the car accident was really an accident. Debbie worked her magic on the bits and couldn't find anything. Thought you'd rest easier knowing."

  Before he could respond, the line went dead. He stared at the phone for a moment before pressing the end button. He pored over the papers again, trying to build up another fume, to no avail. The kettle whistled. He got up, turned off the burner and looked for tea bags.

  "Bottom shelf, left cabinet next to the stove." Her voice, while still husky, sounded less like a frog and more like—like he'd imagine she'd sound in the throes of desire. He glanced over his shoulder. Still barefoot, but wearing faded jeans and a red pullover, she'd gathered her hair into a ponytail. He stared at the loose tendrils at the nape of her neck, wondering what she'd do if he caressed her there. Keeping his body turned away from her, he found the box of teabags, popped one into a mug from the draining rack, and set it on the counter.

  "Sit," she said. "I'll do it."

  Standing next to him, she smelled like soap, toothpaste, and cough drops. He enjoyed watching her pour boiling water into the mug, then stir in some honey. Another wave of lust crashed over him. She gave him an easy grin—an absolutely, totally, one-hundred-and-ten per cent, innocent, 'let's be friends' smile.

  Unable to resist, he leaned forward and touched his lips to her forehead.

  She neither pulled away nor moved closer. She merely cocked her head in question. No reason to expect her to feel the same lust—and probably better that she didn't realize what she was doing to him. He was damn sure Frankie didn't do lust.

  "Checking for fever," he mumbled.

  "It's a head cold. No big deal." She poured a cup of coffee for him and sat at the table, her hands wrapped around the mug of tea.

  "Now, what did I do to ruin your father's life? And what can I do to fix it?"

  He'd come here ready for a knock-down, drag-out argument. Instead, he got—Frankie. Why had he expected her to fight him? He was dealing with a woman who considered problems pebbles in life's path, things to be kicked aside. Troubles were allotted ten minutes. As she smiled at him in anticipation, he mused that he'd been transported to some fairytale alternate universe.

  He sipped his coffee, trying to remember the lines he'd rehearsed. Somehow, they wouldn't match the mood he'd come in with, or the one Frankie set. The phone rang. Frankie jumped. Her eyes sparkled, as if she was hoping for good news, but she hesitated, as if she wasn't sure she dared answer it.

  "Go ahead," he said. "I need to use your bathroom, if that's okay?"

  She nodded, pointed toward the hall and rushed to the phone.

  He vowed to focus on the reason for his visit, and to keep things impersonal. Frankie didn't need a guy like him, and he knew he'd only hurt her. For a lot longer than ten minutes.

  When he returned to the kitchen, Frankie was grinning so hard, he thought her face would split. She raced to him, grabbed his hands, and practically jumped for joy. Then she threw her arms around his neck.

  Her lips were close enough so he felt the warmth of her breath. For an instant, he thought he saw heat reflected in her eyes. Just as quickly, she blinked, and she was innocent exuberance once again.

  He inhaled her for a moment before prying her hands from his neck, but he didn't let go of them. "Whoa. That's quite a welcome. I wasn't gone that long, and I've been reasonably competent in the bathroom department since I was four."

  "I sold a picture. And he wants more. The proofs won't be back until Friday, and I'll have to see about getting a darkroom, or sending them to a lab at first, but I sold a picture and it was only up for a day. Isn't that fantastic? I'm not great, like your brother, but—"

  He squeezed her hands, then released them. "That's wonderful, Frankie. I'm happy for you. Now breathe."

  "I'm sorry. I'm so excited. I mean, it's not like the Photo Barn is a fancy gallery or anything, more like a tourist gift shop, but someone liked a creation of mine enough to pay for it. Maybe I'll be able to quit the Three Elks soon."

  Who could dispute that optimism? "I'm sure you will."

  She reached up and adjusted her ponytail. "Okay. Enough of this. You came here with a problem. Let's see if we can work something out."

  He wished he shared her confidence. He sat down and slid the papers across the table. "What do you know about this?"

  Frankie picked up the pages, leafed through them. As she read, her brow furrowed. She chewed on her lip. She laid them down and shook her head.

  "I have no clue. What does it mean?"

  Ryan sucked in a breath. Blew it out. "Your grandfather owned property in the mountains. My grandfather had some grazing land for his livestock, but he needed to cross your grandfather's property. They had a gentleman's agreement. My grandfather paid your grandfather a monthly fee, and your grandfather promised to notify him if he ever decided to do anything to the property that would deny that access."

  "Okay," she said. "I'll take your word for that. I know that we used to go to the mountains when I was a kid. Family picnics, stuff like that. Dad called it 'our property', but I never thought about it. After he died, Mom never took us back. When I got older, I assumed she'd sold it. I'm not even exactly sure where it is. When you're twelve, you don't pay much attention to driving directions."

  Ryan stared at her, but her expression didn't falter. He saw no deceit. "Then tell me why you were there taking pictures Sunday."

  She sipped her tea, cleared her throat. "I'd be
en there in high school. For photography class field trips." She stood up, brought a box of tissues to the table, and sat down. After wiping her nose, she went on. "Come to think of it, Mom had volunteered to chaperone one trip. She probably picked the place. Honest, Ryan. One tree looks like the next one, and I don't remember if that's the same place. How much land are you talking about?"

  "About two hundred acres."

  She was quiet, apparently lost in thought. And, he noticed, she thought the way she did everything else. With one hundred per cent of her being. Her fingers tapped the table. Her eyes squinted. Her lips moved in and out. Before he could dwell on what he'd like to do to those lips, she spoke.

  "So, the places where we used to picnic could have been some distance away from where I was Sunday, right? I swear, I didn't know it was our land. I knew it would give me some great shots, that's all. But I still don't see what this has to do with your father's business."

  "My father's been paying three hundred dollars a month for access to that land. He retired from raising livestock, but he has a flourishing trail ride business that passes through that piece of property your mother owns. The money's transferred from his bank to your mother's bank—has been for over a decade."

  "Wait a minute." Frankie dashed out of the room and came back moments later with a handful of papers.

  "That explains these deposits to the account every month. I still don't see the problem. Can't your father afford the three hundred anymore? I'm sure if I talk to Mom, she'd be happy to make some kind of adjustment."

  Ryan found the last sheet of paper and the letter from the bank. "Pop gets a stinking boilerplate letter from the bank telling him the property is being sold, that as a courtesy, he has six weeks to meet or beat the other guy's offer. Some courtesy. I've done some checking. This guy is a corporate hotshot who wants to build some fancy mountain retreat for his executives to play bonding games and meditate or some such nonsense. No way is he going to want a string of tourists on horseback to come traipsing through his sacred domain."